NE Surfski Downwind: Gulp...

With winds at 15+ knots from an unfavorable ENE direction, the Board of Trustees made a day-before decision to shift the NE Surfski Downwind course from its normal Kittery-to-York route down to the North Shore of Massachusetts.  We'd run 11 miles from Stage Fort Park in Gloucester to Lynch Park in Beverly, covering some of the same ground we'd paddled three weeks ago in the Kettle Island Run.  Unlike that day, however, the course wouldn't be pampering us with well-behaved waves, mild winds, and complimentary snacks.  Instead, we'd be careening through some of the biggest waters many of us have ever paddled.  If the Kettle Island Run were the dulcet tones of Perry Como, this race would be the take-no-prisoners delivery of Ethel Merman.  I'm nothing if not topical.

As the parking lot filled with familiar faces anxious to once again match their skills and conditioning against one another, a few surprise paddlers turned up to throw a monkey in the shower.  Sean Brennan took a break from the witness relocation program (testified in a controversial jay-walking case, I heard) to paddle in his first New England race in 18 months.  Fresh off her appearance representing the Stars and Stripes at the world marathon championships in Denmark, Alex McClain was ready to demonstrate that - given the right equipment - she hasn't completely lost her steering skills.  Pam Boteler and Mark Berry were prepared to brave the conditions, despite never having raced skis in Northeast waters.  Mark lives so far up in Maine that the locals speak a delightful combination of French and bear, while Pam traveled up from Virginia (which really leaves me nothing to work with).

By the time we left Lynch Park to head out to the launch at Stage Fort, Eric's trailer was bristling with skis.  Twenty-three of us would start the race.  After a brief captains' meeting (the gist of which was "go downwind until you see the finish", with a bracing dose of "you're on your own out there", and a pinch of "please try to wash up on shore"), we each signed a commemorative plaque destined to hang in New England Surfski headquarters in honor of the lost squadron.  A nice touch by Eric, I thought.  We hit the water with a true esprit de corps - fellow warriors united in our treacherous downwind mission.  We'd seize the beach back at Lynch come hell and high water.  Or get wet and nervous trying.

Kirk loosens a few straps for good measure.

Our course would take us out around a channel marker a quarter mile from shore in Gloucester Harbor, downwind in unprotected waters for 3 miles, then another 4 miles past a series of islands (Kettle, Egg, House, and Misery), ending with a 4 mile stretch within relatively protected Salem Sound.  Within that middle section, we were free to weave pell-mell among the islands as our whims dictated.

I reasoned that a route outside the islands would keep me clear from refracting slop, provide the most tidal assistance, and line me up for a final downwind stretch that wouldn't be in the lee of Misery Island or the mainland.  I was alone in this belief - much like during an embarrassing argument in 11th grade regarding Leprechauns.  Unlike then, however, the proof would be in the pudding - the pot of golden butterscotch pudding that I'd stashed at the finish and would be casually eating when the rest of the field staggered in.  I calculated that the outside route was maybe an eighth of a mile longer, but that'd be chump change given my astonishing velocity.

After sabotaging the boats, Kirk plays it cool by regaling the field with tales of derring-do.

Careful to avoid a pack of scuba divers who had inexplicably set up an underwater pumpkin carving station near our starting area (seriously, that's what they were doing down there), we lined up for the gun.  Sean and Borys Markin jumped out to an immediate lead, followed by Alex, Francisco Urena, and the entire field of Erics (McNett and Costanzo).  By the time we hit the turn buoy that would catapult us into our downwind run, I had passed Francisco and Eric the Elder.  Sean and Borys were headed out on a line that would eventually swing them by Provincetown.  Despite their grand tour of Massachusetts Bay, these fellows would end up finishing a convincing one-two (at 1:22:01 and 1:25:06).  Oops.  Spoiler alert.

A mile into the race, that cozy feeling of fellowship had been scoured away by the wind and waves.  It was every man for himself.  I started looking for a V8 to hijack, but realizing that I couldn't actually see any of the other competitors over the heaving seas, I reluctantly decided to stick with my V10.  I felt kind of bad later when I saw photos of Matt Drayer treading water while waiting for the boat hand-off that never came (that youngster's got enough esprit for the lot of us!).  As we approached Kettle Island, the condition continued to grow.

In open water, the 6 foot swell by itself wasn't that intimidating, although it did require a certain degree of vigilance.  When that same swell hit shallow water, rose up on its haunches and curled over to reveal its foam-drenched fangs, however, you started to question the chain of decisions that ultimately led you to wander innocently into its enclosure.  As the old adage goes, a journey of a thousand miles starts with a single surfski pitch from Wesley.  Having established the cause of my predicament, I started plotting my revenge. That kept my mind off the crashing surf long enough to sneak by the outside of Kettle Island without being mauled.

I'm the guy chewing gum.

The next few miles were the toughest of my voyage.  Despite being a good half-mile from shore and in deep water, there were enough shelves and shallows close-by that the seas were piling up around me in unnatural fashion.  Within this grotesque stew, the ocean swell was heading about 15 degrees from my preferred direction, while the wind was almost directly behind me.  I struggled mightily to get good rides, meeting with only modest success.

I classified the waves in four categories: (a) waves which there was no possible way I could catch, (b) waves which I could conceivably catch if you'd just let me catch my damned balance first, (c) waves which I could conceivably catch if you'd just let me catch my damned breath first, and (d) waves which I caught but ultimately dropped because I lost my balance, breath, or nerve.  The a:b:c:d ratio was something like 25:10:5:1.  So every 40 waves or so, I'd catch a ripper, skim over the water with agile grace, then have an intermission of two-score waves to spit the seaweed out of my teeth.  Regarding the agile grace part - you can't really see that so much in the GoPro video below, but if you look beyond what appear to be frenzied strokes and desperate braces, you'll maybe get a hint of my effortless proficiency.  Helps to squint a little.  Have a couple-few drinks too.

Nearing House Island, my craft suffered a sudden and catastrophic rotation around its longitudinal axis, resulting in the captain calling for his crew to immediately abandon ship.  Having ensured that everyone was accounted for, I slipped into the roiling waters to see what could be done to repair my vessel.  Amazingly, the ski seemed in perfect working order!  It was clear to anyone with half a brain that my boat must have suffered an intermittent failure of the roll stabilization system, but those pencil-pushing nimrods at the Surfski Safety Alliance insisted on putting "operator error" on the cause-of-accident report.  That whistling sound you hear is my life insurance rates leaving earth orbit.

I remounted without issue and continued to pick my way tentatively through the stacks of waves.  I was now approaching Misery and Little Misery Islands.  These fellows are separated by a 75 foot gap that's usually quite navigable at mid-tide.  I briefly contemplated shooting this gap.  I certainly would have set a new personal speed record, but judging by the spray exploding 30 feet in the air, my ride would likely end in a personal deceleration record as well.  I therefore skirted the outside edge of Little Misery, still logging some of my fastest times of the day.

Within a quarter mile of clearing Little Misery, the conditions had mellowed considerably.  The other racers referred to this segment of a race as a slog to the finish, but I was still managing to get a reasonable boost on my outside line.  I doubt that much of the reasoning behind my grand navigation strategy was actually sound, but at least this one element was bearing fruit.

I started scanning the shoreline looking for paddlers who had taken the inner passage.  I live in constant fear of being overtaken by an unanticipated competitor (and not just during races).  Craig Impens struck from the blue in the Blackburn, while Joe Glickman did the same in the Lighthouse-to-Lighthouse.  This was my chance to deliver that stomach-turning bolt of disappointment (he thought, with undisguised glee).  Not until I was within a mile from the finish did I spot anyone, however, and the crushing letdown was to be mine.  The bright orange Mocke PFD I saw well ahead must surely have Eric McNett at its core.  By beating me, he would nestle comfortably into the penultimate spot in the point series, leaving me in third for the second year.

Perhaps because I was occupied howling my bitter lamentations heavenward ("Why, oh why, must bad things - well, not really bad, but say slightly off-putting - happen to good people - ok, good may be overstating it, but people who at least wouldn't deliberately swerve to hit a squirrel?"), I didn't notice until a few minutes later that I was rapidly converging with another paddler.  I couldn't figure who it was, but I seemed to be a few boat lengths ahead.  And so I did manage after all to deliver my own spirit-breaking message of "Surprise!  You're one place further back than you thought."  But my heart just wasn't in it.

Bob showing his new-found appreciation for dry land.

I pulled into the finish 15 seconds ahead of Alex, who turned out to be the mystery paddler - a great performance in conditions that couldn't be more different from those she trains in.  I received another disheartening blow when I saw Eric Costanzo waiting at the finish.  Beaten by every single Eric we had!  Eric McNett was nowhere to be seen - probably already strapping his boat onto the van.  Then, to my initial confusion, I saw McNett paddle around the point towards the finish.  Newton's controversial 4th law of motion - the Conservation of Erics - was finally proved to be true.  I was beaten by Eric C (who, it turns out, also was Mocke'd up), but had beaten Eric M.  The former Eric (he was so young...) really established himself as a force to be reckoned with and/or beat by.

Matt, Ken Cooper, Tim Dwyer, and Francisco rounded out the top ten.  Six paddlers wouldn't make it to the finish by water, but everybody arrived safely in some manner (hitchhiking with a 20 foot boat offers its own challenges).  As we shared our race experiences while waiting for the awards ceremony, we studiously (and uncharacteristically) avoided exaggerating our tales of wonder and terror, lest they sound just too outlandish.  I even knocked a couple of feet off some waves to make them more palatable to a dubious audience.

In addition to awards for the race, Eric handed out the point series trophies to Borys and Beata.  Despite living four hours away, this pair had showed up to nearly every race to take command of the series for the second year running.  A deserving Matt received a new spanking paddle for being the most improved paddler of the season.  Scratch that.  Spanking new paddle.  From Think.  Everyone who had completed at least six races in the New England Surfski series was eligible to win an Epic V12 via raffle drawing.  This inspired bit of promotion doubtless helped to drive participation this season.  Bruce Deltorchio was the winner.  He promptly traded the boat for a Fenn Swordfish, a Jantex paddle, and a carburetor for a 53 Chevy.

Many thanks to Eric (not you, Costanzo), Ed, and Ken for making all of this happen.  It was a great and memorable day.

Kettle Island Run: 15.3 Miles of Radiant Bliss

If you were going to schedule a race for the confused waters of Salem Sound, you probably wouldn't make it 15+ miles.  Or schedule it in late September.  Or choose a course almost guaranteed to beam slap you into submission.  That's why you'll never be Ed Duggan.  Ed once paddled shore-to-shore across the Bay of Fundy.  At low tide.  He's done the Blackburn course so many times that he lost count.  In a single day.  He's been known to... well, you get the idea.  My point isn't that Ed is a remarkably tough and persistent paddler who expects no less from participants in his race.  It's that he's just plain bonkers.  Hence the Kettle Island Run.

In last year's race, I went belly up two-thirds of the way through and had to be scooped out of the water by the rescue boat.  Conditions on that day weren't particularly big, but they were everywhere at once.  This year promised to be better behaved, with a light breeze, sunny skies, and mild temperatures.  Sixteen paddlers prepared to answer Ed's challenge.

Remember a time before GoPro when we had no lasting records of our most humiliating moments?  And before we had blogs to advertize these times to everyone?  A representative shot from last year's race. 

 The course is simple - start offshore of Lynch Park in Beverly, circle Kettle Island, and return to Lynch.  Kettle Island starts off at about 7.25 miles away, but quickly recedes to about twice that as you approach it.  An outgoing tide, a NNE breeze, and ocean swell from the SE meant that if you played your cards right... you'd fold and head for the craps table.  The house was going to win this one.  The best you could do was keep your head down and hope that, when you finally got back to the finish, your car hadn't been repossessed.  You probably weren't going to have trouble staying upright, but there'd be a fair amount of slogging involved.

In a competition that at most two people care about, Eric McNett and I are neck and neck in the New England Surfski point series.  Since Borys has already locked up the NESS series crown, Eric claims that he and I are competing for the first place loser spot.  I prefer to think of it as the penultimate position, because after six or seven beers, it starts to sound like that actually may be better than the ultimate spot.  In any event, a win by me in Beverly would make it very difficult for Eric to pry my grubby hands off of sweet penultimateness.

We lined up for an on-water start marked by what I believe was a rapidly drifting dodgeball.  Apparently there was a consensus that a race this long wasn't going to be won or lost in the first quarter mile.  After the start, I found myself in uncharted waters - in amongst the early leaders.  Thirty seconds in, only Chris Chappell was ahead of me.  That may have been in part because Eric and a few others forked off to the left, but nevertheless, I was only a single paddler away from open water.  As I prepared to pass Chris, I remembered the glassy-eyed zeal with which he had latched onto me after I pulled ahead of him at the Great Stone Dam Classic.  Kinda creepy, actually.  I had forgotten to renew my restraining order, so I gave him an extra wide berth as I passed.

Eric opted to forgo any help from the outgoing tide, tucking in close to shore to keep out of the breeze quartering from our left and stay in calmer waters.  It looked like several other paddlers had also decided to adopt the McNett Way.  Before the race, Mike McDonough and I discussed the relative merits of various lines and agreed that the tidal boost would be worth the downsides of staying further out in the Sound.  Eric's uncanny navigational skills usually makes you wonder what kind of deal he might have struck in exchange for his immortal soul, but this was our home surf.  I stayed way outside.

This year's race was slightly less horrific...

Throwing quick glances back I saw that I had some company, but couldn't make out who it was. I had assumed my stalker was Chris, but found out later that it had been a different mortal enemy - Jan Lupinski.  Apparently this perplexing reversal of wash-riding roles threw off Jan's stroke a bit, because after a couple of miles I managed to shake him off.  Meanwhile, Eric continued moving up the coast in parallel, having given the slip to his entourage as well.  With perhaps as much as a quarter mile separating us laterally, it was difficult to gauge who was ahead.

Some people argue that having a bailer instead of venturi drains reduces drag significantly.  Others claim that a well-designed venturi is inherently more efficient than an open bailer when conditions get rough.  What bailer proponents don't tell you, however, is how obsessed you become with the state of your bailer.  They also don't mention that you definitely won't capsize less because you have a bailer.  Most of the drama in the middle of my race resulted from fumbling attempts to open and close that sucker without subsequently examining it from the flip side.

After 7 miles of eyeballing each other from afar, Eric and I would finally converge at the north end of Kettle Island to compare notes on our trajectories.  I suspected I'd have the lead, but it certainly wouldn't be substantial enough to deliver the crushing psychological blow that I had been fantasizing about for the past few miles.  Sure enough, I reached the island perhaps a half-dozen lengths ahead of Eric.  Tentative in the sloppy conditions around the back side of Kettle, I could feel my lead and my confidence slipping away.  As we rounded the island and pointed our skis back towards the start, Eric pulled alongside with a casual ease that can only be adequately described as "malevolent".

Almost immediately after hitting open water, our paths diverged once more.  Eric took an inner line, while I stayed outside so that I could better experience the exasperation of not catching the ocean swell headed in our direction, while also struggling in wind and tide-driven slop from other directions.  I hadn't seen anyone else for a half hour, but as my speed continued to drop, I feared a sneak attack from behind.  The miles were ticking by slowly, with Eric gradually prying open a lead.

At one point a working boat decided to cross my path at a shallow angle and a velocity as closely matched to mine as he could manage - a classic case of WFO syndrome.  This yahoo has the whole darn ocean at his disposal, and he decides to provide me with another dubious excuse for why I couldn't catch Eric.  I did my best to serve up some choice gestures while still paddling, which, in retrospect, may explain why one of the crew asked if I was in need of emergency assistance.  Where's McDonough when you need him?  When it comes to indignant tirades directed at vessels several thousand times heavier than ours, he's in a class by himself (everyone else having graduated after passing their self-preservation exams).

I eventually crossed behind the irksome boat, failing even to wrestle a compensatory ride from the miserly bastard.  Eric was continuing to extend his lead.  With a couple of miles remaining, he was perhaps 30 lengths ahead.  At the Lighthouse to Lighthouse race a few weeks back, Eric had similarly passed me at about the halfway point, but had slowed dramatically near the end, allowing me to slip by in the last mile.  I needed a little déjà vu.  Tout de suite.

I made a few pathetic attempts to buckle down and interval my way up to Eric, but you'd be hard pressed to identify these microblips of effort on my GPS track.  I had not only hit the wall, but had slid down it like Wile E. Coyote, and then had it collapse on top of me.  My stroke resembled an educational video on what to avoid if you find yourself floating in shark-infested waters.  I should have been a little more specific with my ocean vu request - instead of the L2L I was reliving one of the many races in which I had watched impotently as Eric finished ahead of me.  My revised strategy was to buckle down and limp my way in ahead of Jan, who I assumed must be closing on me at breakneck speed.

Several days later, I finally spotted the traditional dodgeball finish marker bobbing in the sea.  I hadn't beaten Eric, but at least this year I had made it around the course with my dignity as intact as it was when I started.  Jan pulled in to take third, completing an Epic V10 podium sweep.  Wesley Echols and Ken Cooper - both of whom may have had their best races of the season - claimed the 4th and 5th spots, just 13 seconds apart.  Joe Shaw, Peter Kahn, Matt Drayer, John Mathieu, and Kirk Olsen rounded out the top 10, with Mary Beth nabbing the top women's spot.

Our race day was topped off with a tasty buffet at the Black Lobster in nearby Salem, at which I put a serious hurt on the world's supply of sesame shrimp poppers.  Awards were awarded.  Races were rehashed in stroke-by-stroke detail.  Someone was asked by the staff to empty poppers from his or her pockets, in what I found to be a less than cordial tone.  We hadn't seen the worst of the Kettle Island Run that day, but nonetheless, it had brought out the best in us.  That's what I might say in earnest tones if I was doing the voice-over for a video tribute celebrating Ed's mad genius.  As it is, perhaps I'll instead just thank him and his crew for putting on another great race.